


Life That Is Only Life After Love

by ghermez



Series: A Sample Of The Life [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Miya Osamu, Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Rimming, Unprotected Sex, fat miya osamu, fat worship, kita is holy, osamu worships, top kita shinsuke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: “Shinsuke,” Osamu says, voice edged with a bit of hardness that straightens Kita’s spine. “Use your words…please.”Sequel toGod is in the Details. Set a few months after.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu
Series: A Sample Of The Life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956544
Comments: 33
Kudos: 151
Collections: stories that touched me





	Life That Is Only Life After Love

The first thing Kita does when he enters Osamu’s apartment is take off his jacket, fold it, and place it on the back of Osamu’s chair. He stuffs his overnight bag under the desk, willing his nerves to calm.

The sound of the shower fills the small space above Onigiri Miya which Osamu calls home. He stands in the middle of the room, seeing how Osamu has spent his day off tidying up instead of resting. There are less books clattering the bedside table and the hamper is empty rather than full of the same navy T-shirts Osamu wears on the daily, and the bed as usually, is put together, made so carefully that Kita admires the crisp edges tucked neatly under the mattress. The place looks different from that night when he’d gotten on his knees for Osamu.

The room isn’t flawless, however. There is one thing out of order, and it’s Osamu’s cap.

Kita’s eyes zero in on it. It sits almost too innocently on Osamu’s dark gray bed sheets. He picks it up, fully intending on hanging it on the hook behind the door, but once the hat is in Kita’s hands, he pauses. The fabric is a little damp, surely an accumulation of the eight hours a day during which Osamu wears it. The character at the front is something he remembers very well. He is the one to have written it for Osamu. He recalls the look of satisfaction turning the corners of Osamu’s lips higher. Kita’s brush strokes now grace Osamu’s head. The idea sends a wave of emotion through Kita. Pride. Joy. Possessiveness. The knowledge isn’t for everyone; just the two of them. Much like the details of what conspire between them whenever they steal some moments from their hectic lives and meet in this very same room.

He can’t help but bring the cap to his nose, taking a deep breath and smiling to himself at how keenly he can pick up Osamu’s scent. It’s a mix of his shampoo and seasoning from the restaurant. Dare he find notes of spicy cucumber, or is he far too fanciful that Osamu prepares _that_ recipe more often than any other?

At first, all Kita wants is to try it on. See how it looks on him. But it doesn’t end there. The cap isn’t just Osamu’s hat, it’s… more intimate than an accessory.

Kita has seen Osamu with this thing on—he is all calm smiles and impeccable behavior with customers but Kita knows the speed with which Osamu reaches for the cap’s rim, fiddling gently with the hard material, at moments of vulnerability; when Osamu can’t do much beside touch and apologize. In moments when Osamu has a shield. In moments when Kita wished to become that shield for Osamu.

When Kita does slip it onto his head, he notes how it is the right size for him after he’d tightened the band in the end, making it a little snug, like a hug. It reminds Kita of mornings of waking up in Osamu’s bed, his head a little hot from the way Osamu wraps it in his arms, snoring away into Kita’s neck. Morning where Kita wishes he could swipe away all alarms and ignore the existence of anyone who wasn’t Miya Osamu.

The past season has been far too busy, and Kita hadn’t been able to leave the farm and come stay with Osamu for longer than a couple of hours a week. That changed yesterday.

Kita’s stomach tightens at the possibility of tonight, tomorrow, and the day after. It isn’t much but it’s more than enough.

 _Lie_ , a voice in his head says. There is never _enough_ with Miya Osamu. There is simply _more, more, more,_ and _please give me more._ But Kita is patient and a hard worker, so if it means he has to work longer hours to spend three days with Osamu, then so be it.

And he plans on getting the most of his three days. He has quite a bit planned out, written down into one long list spanning two, three pages of his palm-sized notebook. Lost in his fantasies of tanned skin adorned with bite marks, Kita forgets that the hat is even on, besides, he’s far too comfortable to remove it now, watching himself in Osamu’s small mirror. He sees the private smile he wears, but he’s too pleased to wipe it off. This smile is a winning one. _I am putting on Osamu’s shield_ kind of smile.

There’s the sound of door hinges squeaking followed by the padding of Osamu’s feet on the floor paneling. Kita’s heart goes from serene to a wild gallop so quick he has to hold onto the back of Osamu’s chair to keep himself steady.

Osamu is an image of contrasts. He’s broad shoulders and soft middle, the trail of dark hair shining with droplets of water, his belly falling a little heavily over the edge of his towel. His arms are thick, more strong than sculptured, his neck long and graceful, jaw softening with mirth. Kita’s eyes fall on Osamu’s long legs, the hair slicked from the shower, and his hand forms a fist.

Then there’s that tattoo. The thick lines of the fox are partially hidden by the towel, but Kita has no need for nudity to remember where it kisses Osamu’s thighs, how it curls over his lovely skin, possessively claiming him. Had Kita been more honest with himself, he’d admit that he is jealous of the tattoo.

Osamu’s entire body is glistening as he cuts through the bathroom’s cloud of steam. Kita’s mouth dries up as he watches a droplet of water trickle down Osamu’s hair, taking a journey from the shell of Osamu’s ear down the elegant curve of his neck, pooling in the hollow at his throat, then kissing one brown, flat nipple, and finally disappearing blissfully in the soft cotton of the towel around his broad hips.

In his next life, Kita wants to be reincarnated as a drop of water. Haunt Osamu’s pipes.

“Hey, you’re here.” Osamu walks over to him, uncaring for how he looks good enough to eat. Kita wants to close his teeth around that delicate tendon in Osamu’s neck and draw blood. He wants to drown in a pool of Osamu’s vitality. He feels cannibalistic around him while Osamu’s gray eyes twinkle as he looks Kita up and down. “Cute hat.”

He touches the brim, mimicking Osamu’s gesture. Yet, he’s not doing it out of need for its security, but to push it back a little, look Osamu square in the eyes. _See me._ “Thank you. It’s my boyfriend’s,” Kita says back, liking how Osamu’s breath hitches whenever Kita uses that word. _Kareshi_. It’s so innocuous yet loaded with promise.

Osamu steps even closer, disregarding the towel around his neck, and the heat radiating off him is so pleasant Kita wants to bathe in it. He’s raising a head to push back his wet hair and yet Kita is caught between _lust_ and telling Osamu off for not drying his hair properly. Kita decides quickly that there will always be time for propriety. Later. Now, he wants to taste.

It’s far too easy to raise a hand and slide it across the curl of Osamu’s left shoulder, tightening over his shower-hot skin, seeing the way his fingertips leave a slight indentation, disappearing as quickly as it appears— _I wanna mark him_. The thought sparkles in Kita’s mind.

He leans close, aware of how Osamu has stopped breathing. His chest is warm where Kita presses his palm, but the rabbiting heartbeat at the base of Osamu’s neck calls out to him.

He goes in for a bite, but he’s stopped by the very reason he feels so empowered, so sure—Osamu’s cap. Its hard ridge nudges against Osamu's ear, stopping Kita in his journey towards bliss.

“Guess you gotta take that off, huh?” Osamu murmurs, breathless and low. Kita wants to wrap himself in Osamu’s voice.

“No,” is his simple reply, choosing instead to tilt his head to the side, maneuvering around the cap’s stiff edge and pressing his lips to Osamu’s pulse. There. This is what he wants. To count out Osamu’s beats with his tongue. To lace his fingers in the hands Osamu obediently keeps by his side. Kita brings them to his chest as he kisses a path where that drop of water has dared to gallivant. _Mine,_ thinks Kita.

 _Yours_ , replies Osamu, in the way he bends forward, eyes fluttering close, mouth parted, lips shining with spit and need and hunger.

Osamu tastes of clean soap and, there, underneath, himself. Tasting Osamu’s skin is like eating Onigiri. At first, it’s the refreshing simplicity of rice, cooked perfectly, then a burst of flavor nestled deep within. Kita doesn’t have a favorite Onigiri flavor. But he does have a favorite Osamu flavor, and it’s this.

Osamu slips one hand out of Kita’s hold but it hovers, trembling, over Kita’s shoulder. Kita feels its warmth over his shoulder blades, and he can read the question in Osamu’s eyes.

 _May I touch you_?

This isn’t hesitation, this is respect for Kita’s boundaries.

But still, he yearns for the words to fall from Osamu’s lips, syllable by syllable, like pearls from the strong hold of an oyster, for his voice to gain confidence. To want Kita with the same fervor with which Kita wants _him_.

Kita wants Osamu to _desire_ him out loud.

“Speak your mind, Osamu.”

Kita feels the shudder raking through Osamu’s body before he sees it. When Osamu speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, “May I take your clothes off, Kita-san?”

It is Kita’s turn to undergo the earthquake-like shudders now. He closes his eyes, inhales Osamu’s scent deeply, then bites that delicious, poor tendon which has been seducing him, and lets himself whisper into Osamu’s ears, “Yes.”

Permission granted; Osamu moves like a man on a mission. First grabbing Kita’s hands and undoing his cuffs. Then bunching the fabric in his calloused fingers, pulling it out of Kita’s pants. Osamu moves quickly over every button, releasing them from their hole with efficiency that makes Kita grow harder in his trousers.

Then, once he’s got Kita’s shirt unbuttoned completely, Osamu smiles, so lovely, so pretty, that Kita forgets the waiting game in which he’s participating.

“Kiss me,” he sighs. He is released from his patience. He simply exists to want.

And Osamu’s mouth falls on him with purpose, but it isn’t his mouth he’s kissing. No. Osamu is lavishing kisses on Kita’s collarbones first, running the edge of his teeth along his shoulder, turning his body into the inside of his cheek, sensitive and trembling, with something as simple as his worship.

Kita’s shirt sleeves are tugged down his arms, and yet he isn’t too busy loving Osamu’s searching mouth on his neck to notice how careful Osamu is as he folds the shirt, placing it on the very same chair Kita needed to steady himself.

Kita isn’t too busy falling in love with Osamu to discover that behind every action, Osamu tucks a little blossom of his adoration in Kita’s corners. It’s everywhere. In the fervent way Osamu licks up and down his ear shell. In giving the sensitive skin under his chin a careful suck. In biting it hard enough to curl Kita toes but as impertinent as to leave a mark. Not without asking.

It’s the sudden loss of Osamu’s heat that makes Kita open his eyes, and he finds himself trembling in the middle of the room with Osamu on his knees, unbuckling Kita’s belt, carefully releasing the prong out of its eyelet, then sliding the heavy leather out of every loops. The act is up to par to Kita’s expectations of Osamu, careful with a good spreading of obscene underlying that innocent act. He sees Osamu as he is. A man held together by desires far bigger than himself; far bigger than the entire world. This, Kita knows, is how Osamu allows himself to release some of the frantic yearning mirrored in Kita’s own heart.

This, Kita knows, is how Osamu loves.

The man currently turning Kita’s capable mind to pudding looks up to him, his eyes louder than his voice. Asking. Begging. But Kita will not answer unasked questions, so he holds himself steady despite the sharp, heady hunger cutting through him.

Osamu’s eyes flutter close at what he sees in Kita’s eyes, his throat working over the words, lips opening then closing, before he finally says, “May I put you in my mouth, Kita-san?”

Before Kita allows himself to answer, he combs his fingers through Osamu’s dripping hair, squeezing the fine hair between index and thumb, water sliding over his wrist. Then he grips a handful in his hand, careful not to pull too hard.

“Not before you properly dry your hair.” He says this knowing fully how desperate Osamu is, how much he loves being on his knees, how he gently rubs ointment into the reddening indentations the floor leaves in every kneecap as if they were a sign of love. But. If Osamu doesn’t take the precaution of keeping himself safe from a silly cold, then Kita will do it for him.

Osamu breathes out heavily against Kita’s hipbones, and the hot exhale spreads gooseflesh across Kita’s skin. But he’s adamant. He watches Osamu’s eyes as they shut, as if he is remembering his mistake just then. As if getting Kita naked is the only thing on his mind always.

“Right. Sorry. I—it escaped my attention.”

“That’s all right. Grab a towel, I’ll help you.”

His words send Osamu up on his feet and hurrying to his closet to grab a clean towel, totally unaware of how he looks. A man of his perfect physique, wearing nothing but a thin towel around his hips, enticing enough to overthrow kingdoms. Kita knows this body, knows its limitations, yet the sincere innocence with which Osamu moves challenges him anew. Osamu doesn’t preen and peacock, he moves with genuineness and purpose, which threaten to unhinge and shatter Kita’s carefully constructed control.

But he’s built upon yearning, it fills his crevasses.

“Sit down.” He takes out the chair and Osamu falls into it.

His cheeks have a slap of red, a blush blooming down his neck and chest, highlighting the smattering of freckles on his upper arms. Kita makes a careful work of wrapping Osamu’s hair in the towel, moving his palms across the fine hair with tenderness that divulged his feelings.

 _I love you_ , Kita says through one thorough rub.

 _I adore the very sole of your hard-working feet_ , the twist of his fingers murmurs.

 _I’d die a thousand deaths to protect the smile from leaving your lips_ , his heart pronounces as it beats in his throat when Osamu lets out a soft moan.

 _The whole world could vanish and I wouldn’t notice_ , his body hums as he leans a little against Osamu’s back.

 _Your eyes captivate me, body and soul_ , his lips say as he bends over and captures Osamu’s parted mouth in a kiss so tender it nearly shatters Kita.

Osamu opens to him like a shy, persistent rose, its nectar so sweet, so lethal, it melts down Kita to his bare necessities. He cups Osamu’s face in his palms, smiles when Osamu sighs in his kiss.

“Kita-san,” he breathes into Kita, and it’s life he’s handing over; sustenance.

But it isn’t enough.

“Shinsuke,” Kita says in the space between them, space so small not even light can find purchase.

Osamu’s eyes are glossy and big in his face, and the look in there hardens the ball of lust in Kita’s stomach. “…Shinsuke…-san.”

“No. Call me Shinsuke, Osamu,” Kita amends, pulling gently at Osamu’s earlobe, reprimanding him a little, loving him a lot.

Osamu gives a shy smile, then he lets out a small, delicate sound. “Shinsuke.” It’s followed by a laugh. And that signals to the butterflies in Kita’s belly, sets them free to roam and make a chaos of his insides.

Kita finds himself gripping the measle thing around Osamu’s hips. If this towel is the horrid criminal keeping Osamu’s gloriousness from him, then he shall tear it away. And once he does as he likes, throwing the towel somewhere over his back, Kita’s mind comes to halt. There is no space for reason now, there is simply ardor.

Osamu looks surprised, as if Kita behaving this way is betraying some rule. That, by undressing Osamu with none of the care Kita puts in everything, he’s revealed something new. But Kita smiles and says, “I’m too impatient.”

In answer, Osamu’s mouth quivers into a small smile, and he says, “It’s all right. I am, too.”

“Then shall we move to the bed?” Kita suggests, grabbing a fistful of Osamu’s now-dry hair, his eyes scanning his lap, a tongue peeking out to lick at his lower lip as he catches sight of Osamu’s dick, rigid and proud, jutting from a thatch of dark hair, sitting pretty between thick thighs.

“Osamu,” he says, his voice an octave or two deeper than normal.

Osamu swallows thickly and says, “Yes, Shinsuke?”

Damnation. The sound of him alone could ruin Kita forever. “Would you mind it so much if I beat you to…it?” He can’t help the smile forming on his lips. Cheeky, Kita isn’t, but there are moments in life so rare that they inspire such behavior.

“But—Shinsuke, you said—” Osamu swallows back his hesitation, tries again. “You said I could…”

“And you will. I’ll make sure of it,” he finishes, the hair in his grip so fine that he can’t help but tug a little until Osamu rises from the chair, and follows him to the pristine bed. He sits him down, lightly kicks Osamu’s knees apart. His jaw be damned, he wants to suck the red, weeping head of Osamu’s cock until the man screamed himself hoarse.

“This,” Kita asks, fingering the cap inexplicably still on his head. “On or off?”

Osamu takes his sweet time, but Kita doesn’t waste a moment, sliding to his knees with grace and eagerness that makes him far too aware of his naked back and the undone button of his trousers.

This floor cannot Kita’s knees, he’s memorized its indentations. That night is still fresh in his mind, but Kita wants memories. So many of them until he couldn’t count them on any of his fingers or toes. Memories so many that they’d exceed the number of grains he harvests in a decade.

He wants now, tomorrow, the day after, and after, and after with Osamu.

But he starts with _this_ second. This look in Osamu’s lovely eyes.

Osamu has one single command. “On.”

And Kita has never gotten a command through which he didn’t enjoy following.

And when Kita touches him, he finds Osamu to be is so hot, thick and sensitive to the barest of touches.

And when Kita wraps his index and thumb around the thickest part of Osamu’s cock, his beloved bucks his hips.

It’s followed by a quick, “I’m so sorry—it’s just been a while—I’m—I’ll be good.”

Kita lets out a hot breath against Osamu’s dick. “Leave your apologies, Osamu. Tonight, you are allowed every whimsy your heart desires.”

“Shinsuke,” his name is moaned through pale pink lips, rolled off a wet tongue, and Kita would love to bottle this sound, replay it forever to himself, but he’d prefer to keep the original.

He encourages Osamu to breathe out, the sound of his palm caressing Osamu’s thigh a barely-there rustle of callous and soft hair, so Kita keeps at it, comforts every bitten whine from Osamu’s mouth with a kiss from his own. And when Osamu throws his head back, leans back on his elbows, touching one hand to his own chest, Kita feels his soul soaring.

It’s nothing to slide the blushing head of Osamu’s dick into his mouth. It’s everything to let its heaviness rest on his tongue, to wrap his lips around it, let his buds relish the taste, map out the texture of veins running down the length of it. Kita hears himself, how his mouth works with ease, not betrayal, but a release, a surrender, his lips opening and widening, welcoming, until he feels ready to put the entire world on his tongue. In his mind’s eye, Kita looks like a beast; taking its sweet, sweet time, sampling drops with the tip of his tongue, then licking a path from head to root, flattering against the delicate underside that makes Osamu’s voice break and stutter.

“There—Shin—uh—fuck!”

Osamu is a symphony of whispering skin atop crisp sheets, a rough palm sluing across soft belly, stiffened peak of a rosy nipple, pinching, soothing, thighs widening, muscles straining around Kita’s head. He wonders how having them close around him might feel.

He feathers a hand over one knee, brings it closer and Osamu whimpers when it touches Kita’s full cheek. Cheek full of _his_ cock. Kita looks up at Osamu, pours his emotion into eyes, into thought, into the softening of his lips and the whetting of his tongue.

“Have—I have to—uh, Shin—I can’t, I can’t go on, I—” Osamu cries, and Kita eases, lets the sopping dick pop out of his mouth, but he doesn’t go far, simply lets it rest against his cheek, smiles when Osamu runs a hand through his hair and grips a handful. “Fuck. This is…it’s somehow worse.”

Kita raises an eyebrow.

Osamu’s face breaks into a smile and the blush invading his skin gains more territory, and he explains, “Worse in the very best of ways.” He lets out a long _whoosh_ of air, straightening his back all the while, then bends low, until his shiny forehead settles against Kita’s, his breath sweet and so hot, fanning across Kita’s cheeks. “Can I have some now?”

Kita smiles, then, he nods.

“Shinsuke,” Osamu says, voice edged with a bit of hardness that straightens Kita’s spine. “Use your words…please.”

“Have your way with me,” Kita replies, chastened by the _you promised_ in Osamu’s eyes. Who is he to go back on his own words? But his assent sends Osamu into action.

Osamu puts his hands under Kita’s arms and, in a movement so smooth and startling that Kita is left gasping, he plops Kita onto the bed, toppling the hat off Kita’s head to the floor. Looming above, Osamu is a frightening God who throws shadows over Kita and eclipses the overhead lights.

He is startled into speechlessness, but desire is another language flowing through him, and he finds himself grasping the thick love-handles hugging Osamu’s sides, bringing Osamu close on top of him, humming gratefully when Osamu slots their bodies right, chest against chest, cock slick against his fly, legs in angles sharp enough to rub naked knees across the back of his thigh, and then there’s the matter of their hands.

Kita doesn’t want to let go of Osamu’s waist, likes how Osamu fills his vision; providing a view too lovely to describe. Osamu’s eyes, despite being in the shadow, are so bright this close. The gray is a thin circle around his fathomless, blown-out pupils. Kita lifts one knee and presses it behind Osamu’s thighs, jostling him until Osamu is astride him, then, finally, he’s resting his plush ass in Kita’s lap.

“You’re so lovely,” he says, the praise escaping his mind like a flitting bird, and in its wake, Osamu’s cheeks plump with a pleased smile.

Yet, he still holds himself above Kita with his propped-up arms. No. This will not do.

“Come here,” Kita says, the barest of warnings before he pushes the soft skin of Osamu’s elbow, tickling it until Osamu let go, collapsing atop him.

Kita can’t help the small, “oomph!” falling from his lips, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the weight on him far too much. This is the culmination of Osamu’s life; soft and supple and perfect for Kita’s grabby hands. His fingers leave such a delicate imprint in Osamu’s skin, and he watches, fascinated, and wonders briefly just how he’d turned into this monster, bulldozing through actions to get to his prize, but he knows how. Hunger is a state that snowballed inside him, culminating over years, months, days, until his phone buzzed with an incoming notification. Then he’d gotten down on his knees, and sucked Osamu into his maw. And since then and Kita had finally understood that the gaping wound in his chest was not loneliness, but starvation.

“There. Now you’re right where you belong.” And looking quite delicious, too. Osamu’s smile is too big, too bright, too crushing, so Kita forgives himself for his haste. He is a man in love, after all. It is love that transformed him into this unrecognizable state.

“With you,” Osamu murmurs.

Kita nearly shuts his eyes but he stares instead at how long, strong, and devastating Osamu looks as he rocks their bodies together, how sure he is as his hand works on Kita’s trousers, lowering them absently as Osamu watches his face. He can’t help the shiver raking his body; it’s extremely erotic to be stripped from his clothes.

It is when Osamu leans back onto his knees, between Kita’s thighs, that Kita almost develops a shyness. He feels his ears warm up. Then, patiently, Osamu pulls each of Kita’s foot out of a pant-let, freeing him.

This isn’t a time for meticulous behavior, but Osamu proceeds to shatter Kita’s life with his care.

For the past thirty minutes, Kita has been tenting his briefs, but it’s only now that Kita is abashed by it.

He shouldn’t.

There is no shame in how desperate he feels for Osamu’s mouth. Matter of fact, it’s a sharp relief to be palmed by Osamu’s hand then be embraced by the warmth of his mouth. Kita’s eyes flutter but he keeps them open. He watches Osamu down there, framed like a pretty picture by Kita’s knees. Nothing could make him miss out on this; on Osamu’s adulation, how he loses himself in the taste and mechanics of baring his tongue and lapping at Kita’s dick, utterly lost, and yet seeming to find himself right where he needs to be. Kita is charmed, moved almost to tears, by the ecstasy transforming Osamu from that shy, unsure man Kita had followed into this apartment that night, into this wanton version. He is liberated. Loosened are the bounds holding him back. Osamu makes love to Kita’s cock like he is mesmerized, like nothing stands between him and ever-after Eden between Kita’s thighs.

Kita brushes a stray hair from Osamu’s forehead, hisses against the keen spark of pleasure building in his spine, enjoying the palming of his heavy balls, Osamu’s tongue dripping spit and precome over his rigid cock, painting him, then licking like he is sipping nectar from between Godly hands.

It’s the smothering heat of Osamu’s throat that unhinges Kita; throws him into a wave upon crashing wave of undulating pleasure, tossing him like he is nothing and everything. He fists the sheets, tears them from their corners, rocks his hips, an involuntary, untoward movement that shoves his cock down Osamu’s mouth, and he nearly apologizes, but Osamu’s eyes flash and his throat flutters. The fingers denting Kita’s thighs tighten, then go smooth.

“More,” Osamu says with a mouth full of Kita’s cock. “I don’t think I have a gag reflex,” he wonders aloud, kissing Kita’s thighs, nipping at the delicate skin where thigh meets the fork between his legs.

What else can Kita do but feed himself into Osamu’s awaiting maw? What else can he do but surrender all that he is, all that he’ll ever become, to be eaten? What else can he do but trust that the very beating heart of him will be ingested with care?

He grits his teeth against the onslaught of shudders lifting his hips off the bed, the impossible way Osamu moans around his cock, the hollowing of his cheeks. He nearly lets go, spills into Osamu’s mouth, and never has Kita wanted something this desperately; and although it might physically pain him to still Osamu’s movements, he does it anyway.

“Not like this,” he says, his words rushing out of him, panting, his lungs working overtime to keep the oxygen circulating to his brain. Osamu has been almost successful in killing him. Any other time, Kita might welcome perishing in Osamu’s mouth with open arms and a bright smile, but he cannot forget the list in his mind.

“How do you want me?” Osamu asks, and it’s far too perfect, spoken through swollen lips, slick with Kita’s cum.

“On top of me.”

Osamu’s eyes glitter. “Riding you?”

“Not…quite. Have you ever been…sixty-nined?”

The blush on Osamu’s cheeks is charming; as if he hasn’t had Kita’s cock tickling the back of his throat a mere minute ago. Kita smiles, thumbs the corner of Osamu’s mouth. “I want a taste.”

Osamu’s throat works. “Okay,” he says weakly, so Kita adds, “and I want to loosen you long and slow.”

Osamu’s entire body wobbles sideway, but he catches himself. “Oh… Okay.”

Kita smiles and asks, “You have lube, right?”

In a manner so quick, so unhesitant, so delightful, Osamu leaps towards the bed-side table and pulls out a bottle of pineapple lube. It’s new.

“This is unopened,” Kita addresses simply.

Osamu’s fingers go to his forehead and Kita realizes belatedly that he is reaching for his cap. “Here,” Kita murmurs, offering his hand in the hat’s stead. “Hold my hand when you feel unsure.”

Osamu’s eyes are molten steel, melting to form something stronger, unbreakable, unyielding, and Kita can’t believe how deeply he can fall in love with a look.

“Call me presumptuous, but I wanted our three days to taste like something new; so, I figured…pineapples,” Osamu explains, gripping Kita’s hand between his, kissing Kita’s knuckles absently between every other word, as if he isn’t undoing the very blueprint of Kita’s soul.

Kita rises on his knees, and with his free hand, he grips Osamu by the back of his neck, lowers him to his mouth, and plants a kiss on him. It’s a smack of their lips more than anything, almost violent in its strength, but Osamu simply looks stricken with adoration; cheeks bunching up shyly, his eyes avoiding Kita’s. So, Kita does it again. And again. The kisses growing longer in duration, softer in bite, until he’s pulling Osamu over him again, their hands intertwining. And at first, Osamu’s movements are awkward as he climbs atop Kita, and he apologizes for every misplacing of his knees, but Kita doesn’t care much. Osamu is splayed out in front of him, the shake of his ass like the ripple of the ocean, an oasis in which Kita may quench his thirst.

He makes quick work of cracking the seal on Osamu’s lube, smiling absently at the way Osamu rests his cheek across Kita’s shins, kisses his knees, props them to gently kiss the insides, humming when Kita does the same to Osamu’s lower back. Kissing Osamu is hardly a matter that takes up space in Kita’s mind; it is nature running its course; his fingers sliding down Osamu’s crack, finding his nestled hole, sensitive and twitching. It looks ripe for the picking and Kita has always enjoyed harvesting.

It’s Osamu’s reaction that makes it all the better; the way he shakes, as if his body is raked by Zeus’ lightning, uncontrollable in how he whimpers and buries his sounds in Kita’s thighs, how he mouths at Kita’s knees like they might save him from ruination. But for as long as Kita is capable, he shall never let Osamu be adrift. He holds him close, drips pineapple lube between Osamu’s cheeks, deftly uses his thumb to tease the bundle of nerves that is his asshole, and with flickers of his tongue, Kita feasts.

He is hesitant at first, unsure how Osamu might react, but he’s pleased to discover that his beloved melts like butter left out on a summer’s day, his skin sticky with sweat and his limbs like putty, barely holding him up. Kita takes mercy on him, keeps his strokes long and deliberate, teasing isn’t what his heart calls for; he wants a malleable Osamu, whimpering for more, and being fed what he wants until he has gorged himself.

Giving Osamu what he wants satisfies Kita in return.

It’s the loss of his field of vision that bothers Kita; he feels more tethered when he can see Osamu’s face, so he shifts over Osamu gently, working his body until he can see him. There. The mixture of utter delight and debauchery taints Osamu’s cheeks crimson red, a color so lovely Kita wants to drench the earth in its hue.

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs, falling forward to kiss the very same fox that allowed them to fall in love. The fox looks back at him, with eyes that glitter.

“H—hi,” Osamu stutters, his chest heaving as Kita helps himself to a generous handful of his thighs, lifting them higher.

“May I hinder you to keep your legs spread for me?” he asks, smiling at how his words, polite and yet drenched in hunger, send visible shudders through Osamu. But he’s Kita’s good, obedient man, and he holds himself open, his body relaxed and awaiting, looking lovelier than a virgin on their wedding night.

Kita smiles at his own mind’s image. Had this been theirs, how different might he treat his beloved husband?

“What—why are you smiling? Do I look ridiculous—” Osamu’s tone is thick with worry but that’s the last thing Kita wants him to feel.

He shushes him with a press of his lips on Osamu’s inner thighs, then bites hard enough for his teeth to shape a mark on his soft skin. “I was being fanciful. Thinking of you as my husband. Of us on our wedding night.”

Kita watches the way Osamu’s eyes shut, tight, for a long moment, his nostrils flaring, then the love in them slams into Kita like the Shinkansen.

“And what if we were…on our wedding night?” Osamu says, the words sounding like the bells of heaven. Kita smiles, running his fingers along Osamu’s crack, pushing a wet finger into the loosened ring of muscle there.

“I would be gentle to my groom. Treat him with kindness.”

Osamu moans, the sound wanton and utterly delightful. “What…else?”

“Kiss you. Lots. Until the inside of my mouth feels lonely without your tongue.”

To this, Osamu licks his swollen lower lip. “I’d like that.”

“So would I. But… I would also be driven wild by the thought of this…your most secret place, put on delicate display…for me,” he speaks slowly, matching the speed with which he trails his fingers, through the thatch of hair where Osamu’s cock springs free, down the twitch of his asshole, fondling his heavy balls, and finally plunging, ever, so, slowly into him.

“Shin—Shinsuke,” Osamu pants, Kita’s name a prayer and torture.

“Yes, darling Osamu,” he kisses into Osamu’s knee, all the while he squirts more lube onto the mess of precome and spit pooling at the very ridge of Osamu’s asshole, pushing two fingers inside. “Can you feel this? Can you feel my fingers in your hole?”

Osamu nods, too busy biting down on his lip to answer, his knuckles white where he clutches his knees, trembling with the effort to keep himself nicely spread. “Yes,” he manages, then he croaks out a groan when Kita pushes a third finger in, shallowly, simply working Osamu loose, enjoying the tight fit that slowly accumulates to the size, Osamu’s pliant body welcoming Kita into it.

“Would you like some more?” Kita wonders, and it’s more to himself than Osamu. He wants more. This and more. This and tomorrow. This and an infinite number of tomorrows. Where every day rolls into the next without Kita ever noticing the passage of time because he’s with Osamu; with the man who has set his soul on fire.

Who has set him free.

“I want all of you, Shinsuke,” Osamu whispers, his voice wrecked, but strong enough; reflecting Kita’s very own heart.

“And where does my darling keep a condom?” he asks, a smirk pulling at his lips, and unexpectedly, Osamu shakes his head.

“I don’t…I don’t want anything between us. If…if that’s okay with you,” he explains, quickly, his eyes like two embers in his face, burning.

“Osamu, my darling,” Kita says before he might relinquish his hold on reality. “Are you sure that’s what you want? My…love inside you…without protection?”

Instead of answering with his words, Osamu looks long and hard at Kita, and for once, Kita might let him convey his emotions, but he still wants to be sure that once he fucks him, Osamu will never be rid of him.

“If…if I do this,” Kita begins. “It would be hard to let go, Osamu. I won’t ever let go.”

Osamu drops his feet until his soles touch the sheets, but rather than pull away from whatever he sees in Kita’s eyes, he curls close to him, kisses his cheek, then his jaw, his eyelids, his ears. There is no order, no proper sequence, Osamu’s love is chaos that Kita permits and encourages with soft sighs.

He likes this Osamu best after all. An Osamu taken by hunger, lust, and passion so fiery it might raze the ground, leave it bare for the two of them to regrow it as they wish. Kita grips Osamu’s waist, relishes in the heavy weight there, kisses Osamu’s neck, sucks a hickey under his chin, hisses a _sorry_ but Osamu is shaking his head.

“Do more. Do it all over. Let everyone know I am yours.”

“Then you do you the same,” he says in return.

Osamu smiles. “Only if you promise to make it so hard to differentiate where I end and you begin,” he says, directing Kita’s aching cock towards his loose hole, and it’s such a smooth slide that it steals their breath away. Osamu’s hips come down slow in Kita’s lap, settling into the saddle, his body atremble, his breath wrecked, but he forces himself to relax and Kita’s eyes flood with warmth at the way Osamu unabashedly opens himself for him.

They rest against Osamu’s headboard, Kita’s back to the wood, and Osamu snug in his lap, Kita’s cock buried to the base in Osamu’s ass. It’s so hot inside him, and his cock feels sensitive enough to blow at the smallest of twitches. If Osamu even dares to tighten around him, Kita might paint his insides white with come.

“Osamu,” he says, touching his thumb to Osamu’s lips. “I love you.”

Osamu melts into him, kissing his lips, his eyelids. “I love you, Shinsuke.”

And with words sweeter than nectar, more powerful than the Gods, they move together, bodies finding their beats a little messily, lube trailing down Osamu’s full hole, Kita’s cock pulsating with the urgency to _come,_ their mouths whispering, repeating, rewriting their own vows, over and over, until they cease to exist as Osamu and Kita, and begin as one.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Miya Osamu. You're a hottie and Kita (and I) loves you.
> 
> The lovely [Phie](https://mobile.twitter.com/gaIuxeis) made my dreams come true by drawing a scene in a gorgeous commission. [Check it out.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ZvjlMX_8QdlQGU427R4GrDKEK9qyBbbx/view?usp=drivesdk)
> 
> i'm on twitter as [@kuroosauce](https://twitter.com/kuroosauce)


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